Oh, blessed be our Lord, what joy is in my soul! The seas and roads rush past, but my joyous heart remains fixed in Jerusalem, specifically upon that hill of sorrow, Mount Calvary. Since I was brought away from that holy place, I have scarcely been myself, and I marvel that my fellow pilgrims suffer my presence at all, for my weeping has become a spring that cannot be stopped. The salt spray of the Mediterranean is a bitterness that I barely notice, for the tears streaming down my face are far more consuming to me. My white clothes are perpetually damp, whether from the sweat of the hot Italian paths or the ceaseless moisture from my eyes. I am a spectacle, a damp, loud nuisance in the eyes of everyone who travels with me, and yet, I would not trade this wretched, crying existence for the greatest earthly comfort.
Before Jerusalem, I thought I knew what love was. I thought my devotion was sufficient when I wore my lavish clothes and spoke of Christ, but now I know that it was merely vanity shrouded in good intent. That Margery was a creature of the world, concerned with her appearance, with the success of her small enterprises, and with fitting herself into the rigid mold of what is respected womanhood. I remember the fevered desire I had to impress others, the shame when my brewing failed, the endless, trivial arguments with my dear, poor husband, John. All those matters, once mountains of worry to me, have now shrunk to dust.
But at Calvary, when I saw with my mind the nails driven into His precious hands and feet, and His mother standing by - ah, the intensity of that moment shattered all the old structure of my life. I had gone to the Holy Land seeking relics and spiritual status, but I received something far greater: a revelation of His suffering so immediate and terrible that it felt as if I were there myself, a witness to the very moment His spirit passed. It was a physical breaking of the heart, a wrenching, painful mercy! I wept so hard, as if Jesus were dying before me then and there.
The folk I travel with, they do not seem to see the truth that I do. They only see a woman who sobs in public, whose tears ruin their food, and whose loud cries interrupt their performative prayers. They whisper behind my back. They say that I am a hypocrite, mad, or that my tears are merely feigned sickness to seek attention from others. Brother Daniel, the quietest of the whole lot, spoke to me only yesterday, his voice tight with impatience, saying “Margery, if your devotion is truly from God, it would be ordered and silent, not this racket which distracts and annoys all good Christians.” They pray for my silence, and some even threaten to leave me alone in some foreign town, yet their judgement and hatred does not wound me as deeply as it once did.
And truly, the cruelty I suffer comes not from strangers, but from my own Christian brethren. When they threatened to leave me, they also refused to share their provisions or offer me even the smallest comfort when I was ill, exhausted, and had given away my resources. It is a sorrowful irony, but during this long journey, when I was sometimes so weak I could barely move, it was often the Saracens, the very people they call “enemies of Christ,” who showed me the most humanity. They gave me food and helped me back to health, moved perhaps by pity for such a weeping, broken woman. This difference wounds me deeply - that those who profess God’s charity would abandon me, while those who know not His name show mercy. It is a terrible sign of how shallow the faith of many pilgrims truly is.
The suffering that they impose on me is a small price to pay for the great love that I have found in God. Their suspicion is but a dark shadow cast in the brightness of God’s favor. My former self would have raged at their scorn, would have pleaded and justified myself until my voice was gone. Now, I can only pity them, and pray that they too may one day experience a visitation from God that overrides everything.
How different I am now from the Margery who sailed away from England! That woman was obsessed with her brewers’ business, with what people thought of her appearance, with fine silk purses, and with demanding things from her beloved husband. I traded goods and worry over money. The memory of that worldly pride fills me with shame. Now, I care only for penance (always by way of a priest) and for the blessed vision of Christ that fills my mind. Calvary was my true baptism, the place where the old, vain self was drowned in sorrow and the new, weeping Margery was born. I was a pilgrim seeking forgiveness; I return a soul completely dedicated to God, purified by the sight of His passion. This journey was not merely a trip; it was a total reversal of my previous existence, and every painful step and every harsh word endured since then only confirms that I have passed over from the life of the human world into the life of the Holy Spirit. May He grant me grace to never look back, and may He stead my soul until the day that I might meet Him again.
Year Published: 1414
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